The Next Ride Out of Town
by hannah308
Summary: When Sam was sixteen he got a visit from Azazel that changed his whole life. Running away seemed like the only option. Sam and Dean POV. First fanfic, so be kind, but reviews much appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me, unfortunately. Someday, someday...**

Sam was in the public library of Sparks, Nevada, researching the disappearance of a local banker, presumably at the hands of some type of vengeful spirit. The library was practically deserted, and the clock ticked closer and closer to closing time as Sam walked between the shelves, replacing books.

"Hello Sammy-boy."

Sam jumped, almost dropping the heavy encyclopedia nestled in his arms. "Who are you?"

The man was tall, with blond hair and yellow eyes like a cat's. Sam shifted the book in his arms so that he had a hand free to grab the knife hidden up his sleeve. He frantically tried to remember what type of supernatural creature had eyes like that.

"My name is Azazel."

"I-"

"You wouldn't remember me of course, but let me tell you a little something about myself. I'm the one that killed your mother. I'm the one that made you."

Sam's breath hitched at the creature's words. The world spun. "You-you killed…What are you talking about, you _made_ me?"

Azazel shook his head, eyes gleaming yellow. "So Sammy, I'm gunna tell you straight. You and your gifts would come in useful to me. Unfortunately, you're still too young; they haven't developed enough. But when you're ready Sammy, I'll be comin' for you. You're mine." Azazel's eyes gleamed triumphantly at him before he turned and disappeared behind the bookshelves.

Sam stood stock still, staring at the spot where Azazel had disappeared. The young librarian eventually came and ushered him out into the war night air with a disapproving huff. Sam stared at the stars overhead and clutched the hilt of the knife still concealed up his sleeve.

What was he supposed to do now?


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Firstly, is it necessary that I do one of these for every chapter? Secondly, no, I do not own Supernatural, Eric Kripke does, yadda, yadda, yadda…

He had spent a month doing research, attempting to discover everything that he could about Azazel. What little information there was made Sam's stomach clench in fear. It was clear, this demon had some kind of interest in Sam, and nothing about Azazel suggested any type form of goodness. That left Sam with only one option. He had to leave. It was either that or put his family in danger.

They were staked out in the typical crap motel, this time in Havre, Montana; a one-street town surrounded by hundreds of miles of flat, dusty cattle country. Sam was worn down. When he wasn't doing research for their current hunt, he was completing homework assignments, training, or finding out all he could on Azazel. When he slept it was to be awoken by nightmares of Azazel's yellow eyes and his cruel smile as he tenderly ran a knife across Dean and/or John's throats.

The fact that Sam was suffering did not go unnoticed to Dean. The fact that his little brother didn't even seem to have the energy to argue with John was indication enough. And, so it was that Dean convinced the Winchester patriarch to allow Sam to sit out their most recent salt and burn.

And that was it. John left with a grunted goodbye and Dean threw a pillow at him. "See you in a few hours, Sammy."

"It's Sam!" He cried, more out of habit and the semblance of normalcy than anything. And suddenly, Sam found himself alone in the motel room with hours yet before the elder Winchesters would return from their hunt. It was time to go.

He grabbed a backpack, stuffing a few changes of clothing, his favorite weapons, a sleeping bag, and as much food as he could find into it. He filled every water bottle he could ferret out in the motel room, stuffing it in his pack as well, along with a worn map that had a red dot on it for every town Sam had lived in since the age of three. There were far too many dots.

Lastly…Sam took a deep breath and delved into Dean's duffle bag. Digging past t-shirts, jeans, copies of Busty Asian Beauties, and a packet of weed, he found it: a wad of bills that was his brother's cumulative savings from working at a car shop in Delaware over the previous summer. Five hundred dollars.

Sam had never considered stealing before that moment, especially not from his brother, but he needed the money. Dean might even be happy to know that he had taken it, at least his little brother would have a little cash to live off of. Still… With a pounding heart Sam extracted three Andrew Jacksons and stuffed them in his wallet. That, plus Sam's savings amounted to $120. It was enough. If he was careful and all he needed to spend it on was food, then it would last him two months. If not…well, he couldn't think about that now.

And that was it. Sam was ready to go. There was nothing else to do except carefully place a folded piece of notebook paper on the bedside table and sweep his eyes one last time around the room. All evidence of his research had either been destroyed or was now safely nestle in his backpack. The room was silent.

Sam swallowed against a lump in his throat and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. If all went according to plan, it was the last time he would see his father or Dean's possessions-ever leave a motel room that they had shared. He rubbed his eyes at that thought. He would _not _break down.

The sun was dipping down below the smooth edge of the horizon, and the cirrus clouds were turned into red ribbons against the deepening blue of the sky. Sam scanned the motel parking lot—deserted—and dashed across the road to the diner. There, a giant diesel pickup full of what appeared to be firewood. With a quick look around Sam loosened an edge of the tarp covering the logs and wedged himself inside. There was barely enough space, and he had his knees drawn up to his chest and the backpack tucked underneath him. It was not the most comfortable of positions he had ever been in, but the discomfort was merely background noise to the turmoil within his mind.

It wasn't long before Sam heard the sound of the footsteps and someone talking.

"Yeah, yeah of course I'll be there." A pause, the speaker was obviously on a cellphone. "I fuckin' know. I'll see you in Wolf Point. What? Three hours or so. I don't know, ask Freddy. Jesus Christ Tim, do I have to…Yeah, yeah, got it. I'll see you in three."

Sam heard a phone click shut and an exasperated sigh before the door closed and the growl of the car assaulted Sam's senses. He felt it pull off onto the highway, and thrum of taught rope, stiff wind and the growl of the car engine were Sam's whole world.

_I will __not__ cry, _he told himself. _No, no matter how hard things get I will not cry. I won't give Azazel that fucking satisfaction. _

And so Sam Winchester spent three hours in the back of a pickup truck, headed for what he did not know. It did not matter; all that mattered was keeping his family safe. He felt the weight of Dean's sixty dollars in his pocket. _I'll pay you back someday, Dean. _

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed it. As always, reviews appreciated. Dean's POV comes in the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. It belongs to Eric Kripke and the CW. **

A/N: This chapter went in a different direction than I originally intended, especially considering my intention was to make it from Dean's POV.  
I should say, I suppose, that I have been to Havre and Wolf Point, Montana. From this experience, I know that they don't play anything on the radio besides country music and preaching. It seemed right to have Toby listen to The Devil Went Down to Georgia then.  
Also, the bit about the words painted on the side of the barn—that's from personal experience too.

Chapter 3

From Wolf Point, Sam walked south along the back roads of Montana, surviving off the food and water he had salvaged from the motel room before he left.

He walked for six days. It was sweltering during the day, burning the skin on his face and arms. After the first day, Sam adopted a plan. He slept during the day, in ditches, old barns, and abandoned homesteads with dirt floors still compact after a hundred-plus years of abandonment. He stretched his sleeping bag out across the floor, laying his head on his pack, and doing his best to ignore the pangs of hunger, thirst, and sorrow that constantly gnawed at him.

When he did sleep, it was to be greeted with dreams of Dean and his father. Sometimes they seemed angry, yelling at Sam. _How could you leave us?! You betrayed us! _Sometimes they sneered and seemed glad he was gone. _You think we would care if you left? You idiot, you were nothing but a burden. Useless. The best thing you could have ever done was leave. _Occasionally, they begged. Dean was the only one that ever did this, and these dreams, more than anything else, made Sam feel as though is heart had been ripped out and burned. _Please Sam, you need to come home. What am I supposed to do without you? I'll make it right. Whatever it is…_

Sam awoke, shaking. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and stared at the ceiling, watching the dust swirl lazily through the slats of the roof. The golden sunshine reminded him of Azazel's eyes. He leapt to his feet, pacing. Outside, the sun was high-no shadows. Sam's mouth was dry and he was down to one bottle of water and had eaten the last piece of bread. No more food, almost no water… He had probably averaged 18 miles every day, and with six days…Sam bit his lip. About a hundred miles.

He made a decision.

He rolled up the sleeping bag, strapping it onto the backpack. He allowed himself one swig of water before he left the old barn, walking past the words "THIS IS NOT A CRACK HOUSE" that had been sprayed onto one exterior wall. The highway was no more than a quarter mile east, but it felt like a hundred miles in the heat.

The black roadway stretch on as far as the eye could see. Sam sighed, hitching the heavy backpack up on his shoulders and began to walk. It did not take long before he heard the thrum of a distant engine. _Here goes shit, _he said to himself as he turned around, sticking a thumb out.

It took a long time before the car drew even with him. It didn't so much as slow down, whistling past Sam at what must have been ninety miles an hour. The next three cars that passed did the same as the first. One of them honked its horn at him and Sam clearly saw the driver's hand as he flipped him off. Sam would have dearly loved to shoot the jerk's tires, but simply watched as it disappeared into the shimmering distance. He kept walking.

The shadows had grown long and deep by the time Sam finally heard the rumble of an engine, and to his immense relief the car stopped. It was an ancient wood paneled station wagon that spat a dark cloud out of its exhaust pipe.

"Need a ride?"

Sam bent down and peered at the driver, a grizzled older man with yellowed fingers that clutched a smoking cigarette. Despite that, there was kindliness about his face, an openness that reassured Sam. "Yes, thanks."

"Jus' toss that pack in back and hop in."

Sam nodded, swinging the pack off his back and tossing it in the back seat before climbing into the car.

"Name's Toby. Where you headed?" the man asked, sticking the cigarette in his mouth and holding out a hand.

"Jason," Sam replied, taking the hand and shaking it firmly. If there was anything his father had taught him it was to never give a weak handshake. "I'm hoping to get as far as Sheridan, Wyoming."

The man stuck the cigarette in his mouth and pulled out onto the highway. "'m headed tah Billings. I can give you a ride as far as that."

Sam nodded. "That'd be excellent."

They drove in silence for a while, and Sam watched the landscape go by outside the window. The dusty car speakers wheezed out the lyrics "_'Cos hells broke loose in Georgia and the devil deals it hard…" _the music mixing with coils of cigarette smoke, the whistle of the wind, and afternoon sunlight.

They drove for at least an hour with very little conversation. Toby told him that he was from Havre, headed south to visit his sister in Billings. He did not ask Sam much save to offer him a cigarette, which Sam declined. He was nervous, and kept one eye on Toby and the other on the road. The man seemed safe, exuding a gruff friendliness that reminded Sam of Bobby, but one could never be too careful.

The sun was setting when they pulled into the parking lot of a diner in the town of Miles City. Sam noted the town's entrance sign. **Miles City. Pop. 8,410, Elev. 2369. **

"We'll just get a little somethin' tah eat and you can clean up a bit."

Toby led the way into the diner, pointing Sam to the bathroom before settling himself in a booth.

It was a relief to be back in civilization. Sam washed his face, hands and arms with water from the sink and paper towels. He combed the hair back from his forehead with wet hands and pulled the hood of his sweater up over his head so as to obscure its decrepit state. With that finished, he exited the bathroom, sliding into the opposite side of the booth as Toby.

Toby looked him over. "I already ordered," the man declared.

Sam nodded, thinking about the precious hundred twenty dollars in his pocket.

"So, what's in Sheridan?"

"My aunt," Sam lied. He had had more than enough time to come up with a back story, and hoped that Toby would buy it. "I'm from Opheim, my folks work at the airport up there," Sam added for good measure.

Toby nodded, looking at Sam closely. "A pilot?"

Sam shook his head. "Customs inspector."

Toby talked a little more, diverting from the subject of Sam's family—for which he was grateful. The waitress, a middle aged woman who seemed to know Toby gave them each a tall glass of ice water which Sam gulped down in minutes. He didn't think he had ever appreciated water so much in his entire life.

The food was even more amazing: a hamburger with a slice of tomato and a wilted piece of lettuce and French fries. Sam did his best not to wolf it all down in one go, but it took almost more restraint then he possessed. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.

When the check came, Sam reached into his pocket, ready to pay for his half of the meal but Toby waved his cash away. "I got it kid," was all he said, but in a manner that brokered no argument.

They drove on into the dark. As they entered Billings Toby spoke up, interrupting the jubilant lyrics wafting from the speaker system."My sister's house is just outside of town. It's a little late tah be catchin' a ride south. You're welcome to crash on 'er couch."

Sam considered-eyeing Toby as the man gazed out the windshield, a dribble of cigarette smoke drifting between his lips. Sam had always considered himself to be a good judge of character, and Toby seemed like a good person. He was right too, it was late to be out on the road, and even if Sam did find a shack somewhere to sleep, the idea of even a couch was incredibly tempting. Besides, it wasn't as though he couldn't defend himself.

"Alright."

Toby nodded, but did not change expression. "They'll all be asleep when we get there, but there's my sister, Judith, 'er son, Alan, and Judith's husband, Jeffry."

"They won't mind me staying the night?"

"Nah, it'll be fine, jus' so long as you help with a couple ah chores tomorrow."

Sam nodded. "I'd be happy to."

They pulled off the highway onto a dirt road, the station wagon rattling over the wash-board roadbed. Just as Sam thought his teeth might clatter out of his skull, they pulled up in front of a rundown old farmhouse.

"Grab yer shit an' we'll head inside," Toby said good naturedly, exiting the car with the deafening squeak of rusty door hinges.

Sam followed Toby to the front door, waiting as he opened it with the tinkle of keys and flipped on the light to reveal a tiny living room with a threadbare armchair and lumpy but no less comfortable looking couch. A cat blinked at them from the top of the couch, and stretched luxuriously. Toby smiled, and walked over, scratching the cat behind the ears. "Nice to see yah up an' about, Hunter."

Toby turned to Sam. "You can dump yer stuff jus' there. I'll grab some blankets. The bathroom's jus' down the hall—first door on the left.

Sam found his way to the bathroom without difficulty, the house was tiny. He dressed and brushed his teeth, then returned to the living room to find Toby dumping a pile of blankets and a pillow on the couch.

"Don't mind Hunter," Toby said, going to the bottom of the staircase. "Jus' knock him off if he gets too cuddly." Hunter blinked at Sam innocently.

"Okay. Thanks."

Toby disappeared up the staircase and Sam organized the pillows and blanket, settling himself down on the couch with a sigh of relief. God, how he had missed a soft surface to sleep on.

Before he went to sleep he slipped his hunting knife under the pillow, falling asleep with the hilt firmly in his grip.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: If only, if only…**

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to upload this chapter. The whole thing with Toby took me in a direction I wasn't prepared for quite yet, but don't worry, he'll have a future role. I had to wait for the muse to hit me again, that and to have enough time to actually get everything down on "paper" in amongst the hurricane of homework. It seems I've finally reached the eye of the storm.

Chapter 4

Sam hoisted the backpack higher on his shoulders and leaned over so he could see Toby through the rolled down sedan window. "Thank you, Toby, for everything."

Toby nodded. He was a man of few words and little sentiment, so it surprised Sam when he said, "Jason, look, take care of yourself out there, okay?" there was an earnestness in Toby's eyes that Sam had rarely seen before. Toby was no fool, he knew Sam was a runaway. "I've put my address and phone number on a card in the front pocket of your backpack. I want to stay in touch. Come look me up in Havre if you're ever in the area."

Sam felt his insides constrict in a sudden upwelling of emotion. He nodded. "I'll do that."

Toby nodded gruffly and turned towards the open road that stretched out ahead of him through the windshield, gripping the steering wheel between his two meaty hands.

Sam turned away, and headed for the bus that would take him to Sheridan; his heart in his mouth.

_ SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN  
_

What followed was eleven months of solitude. Sam went wherever the rides took him. He slept under bridges, in sheds and under trees. Sometimes he came across a mission and although they gave him a bed to sleep in and food to eat, they were dangerous. He slept with one hand on his backpack and another wrapped around a knife under his pillow.

He did odd jobs for people, mainly those he met on the road. He hustled pool in back roads bars where no one cared how old he was, just so long as he tipped the barman and didn't try to order anything. This resulted in a couple of nasty fights, and consequently Sam sustained more than a few nasty bruises. He could hold his own though, at least well enough to grab the money and make a run for it.

Hitchhiking became his primary form of transportation, although if he had recently made a good score at a bar and had a little extra cash then he would take a bus. He had good luck with the people that picked him up. There were a couple of times when he had to pull the knife from up his sleeve, and there was once when he was almost overpowered, but mostly it was okay. Sam made sure never to fall asleep while in a car with a stranger, and if someone stopped for him and he got a bad feeling, if they seemed even a little off, then he would wait for the next ride—no matter how cold it was.

He stayed out of cities too, at least if he knew he'd be sleeping in a mission or out on the streets. An encounter with some teenage druggies in Madison, Wisconsin that left him with a broken wrist and a nasty cut on his left cheek was a lesson that he took to heart. Sam learned fast, and the street life was no more difficult to pick up on then the lessons from his junior history textbook. The stakes were higher. It was learn or die, so he did.

And he walked. Miles and miles Sam walked along road after road. A sense of urgency drove him on, and there was no time to stop and wait for a ride to pick him up. He walked along with his thumb stuck out. His pack was heavy too, after all, it did contain all of his worldly possessions. He grew stronger than he ever had been, perhaps, under John's supervision, in addition to reaching the lofty height of 6ft by his seventeenth birthday. Skinny and strong, worn and with a haunted look in his eyes, Sam could almost pass for any other weary traveler.

Sometimes Sam would stay in a town for a few weeks, working an odd job somewhere. He spent two weeks in Rock Point, Missouri, three weeks in Madison, Wisconsin, November and December in Milton, Vermont, and three weeks in Hubbardston, Massachusetts. When he felt that the residents of the towns were starting to ask too many questions, or get suspicious, Sam moved on. He could not afford to leave a trace that John and Dean might pick up on.

He liked to spend time in libraries. If Sam found himself in a safe-looking town with a library, he might spend a whole day—or several days—holed up inside, doing his best to study and learn all the things he supposed other high school juniors were learning. US History, English, Pre-Calculus…He missed school fiercely. He missed simply learning for the sake of it.

Sometimes, after a particularly lucrative job or stint at a bar, Sam would scrape together a few dollars and buy a couple of used paperbacks to keep him company on the road. Things he supposed other high schoolers were reading in school and titles that caught his fancy. _The Catcher in the Rye, The Iliad, The Call of the Wild, _and_ Crime and Punishment _took up permanent residence in his backpack.

By his seventeenth birthday Sam had made his way across fifteen states, and through his first bitter winter on the streets. All the while, he did his best to avoid the supernatural. It was ridiculous to think that he could leave that life behind completely, however. This fact was brought home to him one day, two weeks following his seventeenth birthday.

He was slumped on a bench next to a grungy looking coffee shop, exhausted after having spent most of his day walking the thirty-four miles from Thurmont, Maryland, to York Springs, Pennsylvania. The previous night had been cold, despite the usually mild May weather, and he had been driven out of his sleeping bag at 3am to start his aimless trek across the state. He'd passed through the outskirts of Gettysburg, a place that he was determined to avoid seeing as there was likely to be more than a few restless spirits haunting the old cemeteries and battlefields. He refused to be dragged back in to the hunting life.

No sooner had Sam thought this, chewing on a piece of three day old bread and contemplating where he should shelter for the night (pick the lock on the teacher's lounge at the elementary school?) did he notice the headline for the local newspaper, _York Springs Weekly_. It lay there on a wire stand, the bold, black letters screaming at him.

**Local Banker killed in mysterious break-in…**

Sam's conscious mind hardly had time to register the fact that the local newspaper really needed to work on getting catchier headlines, and then snort at the irony of that thought, before he found it unfolded in his hands. With his heart pounding, Sam began to read.

"**Someone had broken in. The whole house was a mess, overturned furniture and books all over the place…I found him in the living room, lying on top of the broken glass coffee table, covered in blood and with a gun in his hand," Sylvia Ross, 38 year old local resident and house cleaner for William Houston informs this reporter as she calmly sips tea from an old fashioned china cup. At 1:30pm on Tuesday afternoon, Sylvia entered the Houston house to discover her employer, William Houston, dead from an apparent robbery. **

**But was it a robbery? The police are inclined to doubt it. "The funny thing was," Sylvia informs me, "when the police had me do an inventory of everything in the house, there was nothing missing. I've been working for Mr. Houston for ten years, and I know every dish, every trinket in that house. He didn't have that many things, and of what there was, nothing was missing." **

**The case becomes even more mysterious. Adams County coroner, Thomas Grenville informed the police that William Houston did not die from any kind of external trauma. In fact, "he died from a massive myocardial infarction," Dr. Grenville informs me on an overcast Wednesday outside his office in Gettysburg. Or, in layman's terms, he died of a heart attack.**

"**Perhaps it was the result of excessive adrenaline secretion," Dr. Grenville jokes as he exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Of fright," he clarifies with a slightly exasperated expression. And perhaps Dr. Grenville is right. After all, in a case as mystifying as this, that would not seem too far-fetched. **

Juliette Montgomery

Staff Writer

Sam stared at the article. He could hear the heartbeat in his ears, feel the blood pumping in his fingers and arms. There was no way he was going to do this. No, he had left that all behind him with his family. Water under the bridge—miles behind him on the dusty, winding road of his life. But could he really risk more lives being lost? Could he really turn his back on this?


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **No, I do not own it. It bellows to the CW, Eric Kripke, and all those other people over in Vancouver.

A/N: So, I wrote this today instead of studying for a psychology exam. I'm such an epic procrastinator…Hope you like it!

Chapter 5

The night was warm, so Sam ended up laying out his sleeping bag under a tall sycamore beside a creek just outside of town. William Houston's death preoccupied his thoughts throughout the night, and when he did finally fall asleep, it was to be greeted by dreams of broken glass and murder.

By the time the sun peeked its golden rays over the tree tops and awoke Sam, he had already made a decision. He would investigate the murder, verify that it was, in fact, the result of normal human idiocy, and then hightail it out of town.

So Sam made his preparations. He found a secluded inlet of the creek and washed himself with a motel bar of soap and vial of shampoo he had snatched from a housekeeper's trolley in Delaware. He changed into his clean pair of jeans, t-shirt, and sweatshirt, and did his best to shave off the beard that was the most recent impossible annoyance in his life. With these morning ablutions attended to, Sam stuffed his sleeping bag, tarp, and backpack into a secluded stand of bushes and headed into town.

No one gave him a second glance as he walked into town and headed for the office of the _York Springs Weekly_, nervously running a hand through his clean hair. The woman behind the reception desk was pretty, and she smiled at him when Sam he approached. "How can I help you?"

Sam's mouth had gone dry. Was he really going to do this? "Is Juliette Montgomery available?"

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Um, no. But—"

"What's this regarding?"

"Her article in last week's paper, about Mr. Houston."

The receptionist regarded him through dazzling blue eyes a moment before picking up her phone. What followed was several minutes of Sam starring off into the distance, engaged in his own tumultuous thoughts, and the receptionist sizing him up from head to toe as she spoke on the phone.

"Alright, you can head back. Room 2b."

Sam nodded, and made his way down the hallway. Just as he was about to knock on the door of room 2b, it flew open to reveal a frazzled looking young woman with a mass of curly brown hair sticking out around her face and a pencil sticking out from behind her ear.

"Hello, you must be the young man from reception. I'm Juliette Montgomery," she stuck her hand out, and Sam shook it.

"David Hughston."

Juliette ushered him into her cluttered office. She waved him to a chair stacked high with old newspapers. "Just dump that on the floor and make yourself comfortable. So, tell me David, what sparked your interest in last week's article?"

Sam picked up the stack of newspapers and carefully arranged them in a more organized pile on the floor. "Well, I'm from the high school down in Gettysburg, and for our English class we're supposed to report on a local event."

Juliette was busy untangling a barrette from her hair, but she kept her eyes on Sam. "I remember those, always loved 'em."

"I saw the article in your newspaper and it just seemed like a great topic."

Juliette smiled as she triumphantly pulled the barrette from her hair. "So, you were wondering if there was any information I left out of the article? If you could get some interviews perhaps, with witnesses and so on?"

"Yes, exactly," this might turn out to be easy.

Juliette gathered her hair into one giant mass at the back of head, which she skewer with the pencil that had previously led an innocent existence behind her ear. She then regarded Sam intently from across the desk. He sat completely still under her scrutiny. "English is your favorite subject, is it?"

"Yes Ms. Montgomery," and it was true, or at least it had been.

"And there's a lot of other students to compete against for good subjects, is there?"

"A little over thirty, Ms. Montgomery."

"You can call me Julie. Alright then, I'll give you the skinny," she smiled, excited, and began rooting around one of the drawers of her desk. Sam, for his part, extracted a notebook from his back pocket and snagged a pen from Julie's desk. He flipped to a blank page and looked up expectantly as Julie pulled a notebook of her own out of the desk drawer and began leafing through it.

"You know, David, I admire your choice of topic. You clearly have a nose for the unusual, because, I swear, this was one of the stranger deaths I ever reported."

Sam felt the ball of foreboding that always seemed to be there in his stomach uncurl slightly. "How so? I mean, I know about the coroner's report and everything—"

Julie snorted. "Thomas? That bastard. '_Myocardial infarction, adrenalin secretion_…'condescending ass! I wouldn't put up with him if the police chief didn't think so much of him. Oh, sorry, I get carried away sometimes," she said when she noticed the look on Sam's face.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I mean—"

"Hon', you keep smiling and telling the girls they're right like that and you'll have more of 'em running after you than you can contend with," Julie joked.

Sam laughed nervously. "About the coroner's report?"

"Oh, right. Yes, so that wasn't the only odd thing they found on the body. Aside from the fact that he died of a heart attack rather than getting stabbed or something, Thomas said he found, what was it…?" Julie scanned her notes. "Oh, yeah, sulfur. Thomas said he found sulfur on the body."

Sam went cold at her words. Sulfur? He closed his eyes a moment, before asking, "Do the police have any theories as to how it got there?"

"They said some stuff about maybe it getting there from one of the holes punched in the wall, old architecture and all that…but the truth is they really have no idea. The lead detective on the case is just as stumped by it all as Thomas was." Julie smiled at this.

"Who's the lead detective on the case?"

"His name's Daemon Weatherstone. But sorry, David, there's no way he's going to talk to a high schooler about an ongoing investigation. Wouldn't even take two minutes for me," there was a bitterness in her words at this and her gaze fixed on the wall behind Sam.

"Did Mr. Houston have any enemies, anyone that might want to kill him?"

Julie seemed to come back to herself. "What? No, no…that's the funny thing. He was so lovely, everyone knew him from the bank. Timid, but lovely. I can't believe he even owned a gun..."

"Do you think Sylvia Ross would talk to me?" Sam asked.

"Yes, I'm sure she would. Here," Julie ripped a scrap of paper out from under a stack, examined it, then ripped a corner off and scribbled down an address. "Here, Sylvia lives just at the other end of town. Tell her I sent you over and she'll talk to you."

Sam took the piece of paper, examining the address. 241 Maple Creek Way. "Thank you for all your help, Ms-Julie."

Julie stood up and extended a hand, which Sam shook. "It was nice to meet you, David. Send me that article when you write it."

"Will do," with that he exited the office.

Out on the street he breathed in the warm air and the tart smell of new spring growth. _Fuck! _There had been sulfur on the body. He couldn't ignore this now. He had the address of a witness, he would have to investigate the banker's past, find out what he had done to anger a spirit. _One case, _he told himself, _just this one. Once it's over, move on and forget you ever knew anything about the supernatural. _He breathed deeply through his nose and stuck his hands in the pockets of his sweater. The weight of the knife on his wrist seemed even heavier than usual.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: Nope, not mine.

**A/N:** Well, this took me a while to get around to. I actually wrote chapter 7 before I finished this chapter. For some reason I just found it very difficult. Anyway, enjoy.

The best way to describe Sylvia Ross was to say that she was clean. Everything about her, from the precisely smooth dark knot of hair at the back of head, to the pristine quality of her black high heels screamed a well ordered mind. She sat there before Sam in a severe grey skirt and grey jacket, sipping tea out of a china cup.

"You caught me just as I was heading to a job interview," she said, scrutinizing him with dark eyes.

"I can come back later if that would work better for you, Ms. Ross."

"No," she checked her watch and set her tea cup down on the glass coffee table. "Now is fine. Just ask me what you'd like to know."

"Well, you've been working for Mr. Houston for ten years?"

"Yes, that is correct.'

"And you said in the article that there was nothing missing when you did the inventory."

"Yes, everything was there."

"The house was ripped apart though, as though someone was looking for something."

Sylvia shook her head. "I cannot explain it. Perhaps the killer did it to cover up the fact that it wasn't just a robbery gone wrong."

"So you think Mr. Houston was murdered? Ms. Montgomery told me that Mr. Houston was 'timid and lovely'. What would have motivated someone to kill him?"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows. "Ms. Montgomery said that because she did not know Mr. Houston like I did. He—if you'll excuse my language—was a cold bastard. It's what made him a successful banker. He put up this façade of kindness for the clients, but get him talking to someone without the finances to pay back a loan or something similar, and his true colors came out."

"So you think he cheated someone and they killed him for it?"

"It wouldn't surprise me."

"One last thing Ms. Ross. When you found Mr. Houston, did anything strike you as being odd?"

An infinitesimal smile flickered at the corners of Sylvia Ross' mouth. "How do you mean?

"Well, Ms. Montgomery told me they found sulfur on the body."

Sylvia considered this for a moment. "Well, I did notice that it was unusually cold in the room, despite the fact it was a sunny Tuesday afternoon."

Sam looked at her, his mind racing. This was definitely a spirit of some kind, most likely vengeful if Sylvia's word was anything to go by. He closed his notebook and stood up, Sylvia followed suit and they shook hands.

"Thank you for your help."

"It was no problem. Good luck on your project."

_You have no idea, _Sam thought as he made his way to the door.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

It was the following night, and Sam was standing in a cemetery, a shovel in one hand, a bag of supplies over one shoulder, and the light from a headlamp illuminating the grave of one, "Robert Whitmore. 1946-2000."

Following his interview with Sylvia Ross Sam had gone to investigate the late Mr. Houston's house. The EMF meter Sam had fashioned out of an old Walkman had shown clear signs of spiritual activity. There had been traces of sulfur as well. It looked like the spirit had taken it upon itself to rip the house apart as much as possible before throwing Mr. Houston onto the glass coffee table, which in and of itself had, surprisingly, not been enough to kill the old man, so the spirit had given him a heart attack.

Sam had returned to his hideaway beneath the sycamore tree, and attempted to sleep with little to no result. The following morning Sam had dinned on the last of his bread and peanut butter before hightailing it to the local library for some research.

Hours ensconced behind one of the ancient computers proved worth it when Sam discovered an obituary from six months before detailing the life and demise of a Shannon Whitmore. The daughter of Robert Whitmore, she had been diagnosed with leukemia a year before, and after the loss the Whitmores' house to the bank, Shannon's health declined even further, and she died a month later.

Following Shannon's death, Robert Whitmore had committed suicide. His car and few valuable possessions were auctioned off to help pay his debts to the bank, the same bank that Mr. Houston had worked at for fifteen years.

_Pretty cut and dry_, Sam thought, shutting down the library computer and tucking his notebook in a back pocket. _Or, at least it would be if not for the one problem of determining which Whitmore it had been that killed Mr. Houston. Shannon or Robert?_

The answer to this question came sooner than Sam would have thought. As he walked passed the same newsstand that caught his attention the two days before, Sam's eye lighted on a headline.

**Daughter of recently deceased found dead…**

It seemed that Mr. Houston's daughter had been killed the night before in at her office; the victim of a heart attack, just like her father. Bitterly Sam tossed the newspaper back on the rack. This was all the confirmation he needed. It had been Robert's ghost that killed Mr. Houston, blaming the banker for his daughter's death health. He was seeking out his revenge, not only on Mr. Houston, but also on his family.

The problem was, Mr. Houston had another daughter, Caitlin, who was also a local resident. Sam was under no illusions about the ghosts intentions. If not stopped it would kill Caitlin.

A quick return trip to the library for information of Robert Whitmore's gravesite, to his backpack for supplies, followed by picking the lock on the cemetery's tool shed t retrieve a shovel, and now here Sam stood, ready for his first solo _solo _salt and burn; or as ready as he'd ever be.

It was hard time consuming work, digging up a grave; especially without help from Dean or John. Contrary to popular belief, however, most graves were only four feet deep, and so it was that after a half hour's heavy labor, Sam's shovel scraped the coffin lid.

Taking a deep breath he pried open the lid, and the horrible smell of rotting flesh assaulted his senses. Coughing and grasping for breath, Sam scrambled out of the grave.

That was when it hit him. An invisible force grabbed Sam and threw him against a nearby gravestone, where he landed with a whoosh as all the air was forced from his lungs. Gasping for breath and his vision wavering slightly, Sam saw the ghost of Robert Whitmore standing before him, wispy grey hair and the desiccated look of a corpse, it extended one rotting hand towards him, and Sam felt himself picked up again. This time he was slammed against a nearby oak tree, not six feet from the open grave site.

_One piece of luck, _he thought distractedly as he crawled towards the grave, and desperately grabbed a handful of salt from where it lay in an open bag beside the pit. A chill crept up his back, and Sam rolled over as Robert Whitmore's spirit raised a translucent hand to toss him against another gravestone. His handful of salt hit the spirit in the chest, and with a scream the ghost flickered and vanished.

Panting from fear and desperation, Sam grabbed the bag of salt and scattered it over Mr. Whitmore's remains. Scrabbling in the duffle bag, he pulled out a small canister of lighter fluid and a box of matches. Within a few seconds the body was covered in the flammable liquid and Sam had tossed a match on the body. A dull roar accompanied flames as the corpse burned, and Sam turned just in time to see the rematerialized spirit of Robert Whitmore dissolve in blaze of fire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. They never will be, sadly.

**A/N:** I enjoyed writing this chapter, even more than the other's for some reason. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I just saw the most recent episode (S8E14). I thought it was great. I can see the end coming though. I wish it didn't have to end…

Chapter 7:

Sam did not know what to do. The little shell of existence that he had constructed for himself was shattered. It had been centered on one resolution. Get away from the hunting life, get away from his family. He had to do it, to protect them, and to protect himself. And now, after conducting a hunt, he could not decide what to do. Because now he understood what John had preached to him and Dean about for all those years; what Dean had always seemed to understand far better than Sam…There were people out there that needed saving, and Sam knew how to do it. How could he turn his back on them? The answer was simple, he couldn't.

This realization drove him south. It was with a confused desperation that Sam sought out a ride, and after an hour of walking on Old US Route 15 that he caught a one from an old married couple headed to Alexandria, Virginia, to visit their pregnant daughter who was due any day now. They were a nice couple, chattering good naturedly to one another and to Sam, who was ensconced in the back seat and spent most of the drive staring out the window, nursing the bruises he had sustained the night before, and speaking as little as possible. When they stopped at a gas station in Downtown Alexandria Sam grabbed his pack and made a break for it while Mr. and Mrs. Branson stood arguing with one another about which hospital their daughter had said she would be going to, St. Mary's or Alexandria Regional?

Sam avoided goodbyes whenever possible.

He was exhausted, and it was with extreme difficulty that he managed to keep his eyes opened long enough to find a park bench and pass out with his head resting on his backpack and his legs draped over the black arm.

It was several hours later that he was pocked awake by a police man's nightstick and the blinding light of a flashlight to the face. "Hey, kid, you can't sleep here."

Sam was blinded and confused. "Wha-what time is it?"

He felt the nightstick tap him on the arm. "Scram, kid. There's a mission a couple blocks from here. Go get something to eat and a place to sleep."

Sam stood and pulled his pack onto his back. The darkness of surrounding night pressed against his eyes. How could he have slept for that long? And what the fuck did this cop know about missions? They wouldn't have a spare bed by—Sam checked his watch—11:00 at night.

"Hoof it before I'm forced to arrest you, kid."

Anger flared in Sam's chest, and he would have dearly loved to turn around and give the cop a face full of it, but instead he turned and made his way out of the park.

It had been a while since he was last in a real city. He couldn't believe he had managed to get caught in one at night. "You fucking idiot, Sam Winchester," he said to himself as a he skirted a group of drunk and/or high twenty somethings smoking in front of a bar. It wasn't that cities were _that _dangerous, it was just that in a life full of danger he would rather not be asking for a little bit extra by getting into a situation involving people. He was coming to realize that people were far more dangerous than nature, or even the supernatural could be. _Give me the choice between a forest and an alley to sleep in and I'll choose the forest every time, _he thought, turning the corner onto a dark street.

He stopped. The street was completely empty and lit by only one meager streetlight at the other end. His hand crept toward the knife on his wrist. Sam listened. A car drove passed the other end of the street, its headlights briefly illuminating the empty windows of an old warehouse. A voice whispered in the back of his mind. _What the fuck are you still doing here, Sam? Trust your instincts and get the hell out!_

He turned and came face to face with a man. He was standing not two feet away, and gazing at Sam with black eyes.

Before Sam even had time to properly register this fact he found himself pinned against the wall of the corner building, struggling for breath as the man grasped him by the throat. Black eyes bored into him.

"Sam Winchester," the man—no, _creature_—said.

He couldn't breathe. He clawed at the hand holding him against the wall. _The knife you idiot! _Sam yanked the knife from its sheath at his wrist and blindly thrust it into his attacker.

Sam dropped to the ground, and scrambled to his feet, turning just in time to see the creature casually pull the knife from its chest.

_Run, you idiot! Run!_

And Sam did run. He took off back the way he had come, going as fast as his legs could carry him. Down an alley, out into a busy street dodging cars, jumping over a fire hydrant and smashing into a pedestrian. He glanced over his shoulder and glimpsed his pursuer slide across the hood of a taxi.

_Ditch the pack! _A voice—no, Dean's voice—shouted at him. It was hardly without thinking that he slid the pack from his shoulders and heard it hit the ground behind him. Sam kept running. He turned left down a crowded street, right into an alley and left again. His breath tore at his throat, the cool night air burning with every inhalation.

He stopped and crouched behind an old pickup truck. _Black eyes, black eyes…what the fuck kind of creature had black— A demon. _He was being chased by a fucking demon!

He felt in the pocket of his jeans, and yes, thank God! Sam pulled out a small flask of holy water.

He peered over the hood of the car, and there was the demon. It stood just on the other side of the quiet road, its black eyes scanning the scene. "I know you're there, Sam! Come out, Azazel wants to talk."

Sam could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He unscrewed the lid of the flask. The demon crossed the street, approaching the car Sam hid behind.

"I can hear you breathing, Sa—"

With a cry, Sam leapt from behind the car and caught the demon full in the face with the contents of the flask. This time, the demon screamed and clawed at its smoking skin. Sam did not stop to watch. Dropping the now empty flask, he ran.

On and on he ran. He did not stop, not even when his breath was a fiery agony, not even when his legs started to cramp. It was only when he scrambled over the fence of a cemetery and wove his way through the graves to the church at its side, only when he opened the door and crept inside, sliding into the pews, did he finally stop.

Sam lay on his back, gazing at the undulating darkness overhead; reeling. He could not comprehend what had just happened. Chased by a demon…

"_Azazel wants to talk."_

He rubbed a hand over his face. Azazel. He should have known the demon wouldn't leave him alone for long. Azazel had said he was special. The demon had plans for Sam. It appeared that he was going make those plans come true.

Sam rolled onto his side, resting his head on his arm. He closed his eyes.

"Sleep now. Catch a ride out of town in the morning. You'll be okay. Everything's going to be okay." He whispered to himself, a hopeless reassurance.

_Funny, _Sam thought, _how I can almost hear Dean's voice telling me those things. I wish you were here, Dean. Fuck, I wish you were here. _


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I am so sorry it took me so long to upload this. I've been incredibly busy these past couple of months. I hope you enjoy it though, and I wrote a longer one to make up for the absence.

**Warnings:** I suppose I should have included these in previous chapters; however, suffice it to say that the Winchesters are adults and I have equipped them with the vocabulary I would assume they'd be accustomed to, i.e. swearing.

Chapter 8

It was 2am, and Dean was staring at the amber contents of a tumbler, and definitely beginning to feel its effects. He had just spent the day behind the wheel of the Impala, doing his best to make it to Salmon, Idaho before the day was over. John was due to meet him the following day after wrapping up a hunt in Sequim, Washington. Dean's original intention had been to get a good night's sleep and get a little research taken care of in the morning, but all it had taken was the discovery of one thing.

Dean had finally decided it was time to conduct a thorough cleaning of the Impala. Wading through an elbow-deep morass of burger and M&M wrappers, old paper napkins, newspapers, and empty shotgun shells, Dean was just about ready to go get some quality shut eye when he saw it, pocking out from under the driver's seat.

His hands shook slightly as he pulled it out from under the seat, an old grey t-shirt. Sam's t-shirt. He felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. It was a physical pain, a breathless, shocking pain; and he sat there in the back seat of the Impala for a long time, staring at the shirt in his hands. How could he have missed this? Fuck, how the hell could he have missed this?

The t-shirt had sent Dean into an emotional tailspin. Normally it would take a hell of a lot more to do that, but he was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Within the space of five minutes all Dean wanted to do was get a drink.

And so here he was, against his better judgment, in a dive bar wallowing in the never-ending sadness that came with losing your little brother.

He had disappeared ten months ago while Dean and John were on a hunt in Havre, Montana. Secure in the knowledge that Sam was buried under a pile of homework and a teenager's tenacity for sleep, John and Dean had successfully carried out the hunt, although, due to the grave-dirt's incredible resemblance to concrete, it had taken far longer than usual to dig up the old geezer. Consequently did not getting back to the motel until well past 12 o'clock at night.

"Hey, Sammy, we're back;" Dean announced, opening the motel room door and stepping inside the dark interior. Feeling his way through the dark room, he made it to the light between the two beds and flicked it on.

"Dean…" standing by the door, John's quick gaze surveyed the room, and the beginnings of fear colored his words. "Dean where's your brother?"

The room was empty. No Sam on either bed, or on the cot. John strode to the bathroom. "Sam!" it was empty too.

Adrenaline pumping through his system left Dean's mind and sibling instincts in overdrive as his eyes scanned the room. "Dad, his stuff's gone."

And it was true. There was a barren quality to the room. At the end of one of the beds Sam's duffle bag lay open, the majority of its contents missing. On the bed, Sam's school books sat in a neat stack. And there, on the bedside table where Dean had missed it before, was a neatly folded piece of notebook paper. Dean grabbed it, practically ripping it apart in his haste to unfold it.

_Dean, _

_ So, I guess this is my goodbye message. I'm physically fine, not kidnapped or anything. I borrowed some money. I'll pay you back someday, I promise. _

_ Love, _

_ Sam_

Dean stared at the letter for a long moment. There was a buzzing in his ears—a rushing.

"Dean? Dean, what does it say?"

Dean looked up, surprised to not only find that he had sunken down onto one of the beds, but also to see his father standing over him, a wild fear in his eyes that Dean had never seen before.

"Dean!"

John snatched the note from his eldest son's hand, his own tightening around the paper as he read. It crumpled under his fingers as he looked up and met Dean's gaze.

Dean could not move, could not breathe.

SPNSPNSPSNPSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

They searched for six months, and there was not a trace. It was shocking, really, how completely Sam had managed to disappear. The irony of this did not escape either John or Dean. Sam, who had always hated hunting, was gone because of it—that Dean was sure of. And now, John and Dean, the ones who had spent most of his life training him were doing their absolute best to find a kid that seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth, all by dint of those skills.

Under most circumstances they wouldn't have given it a second thought to contact the police, but the reality was that there very little the police could do, and even if they did find him, there would be the question of _why _Sam had run away in the first place. He would most likely be put in a foster home—carted around from family to family. It was a future that neither Dean nor John could stand.

"I guess he was paying attention after all," John said bitterly one day as he slumped over the bar at the Roadhouse. Ellen had looked up and met Dean's gaze. The sympathy and sadness in her eyes had been unbearable to see. Dean had looked away and continued packing shotgun shells with rock salt.

By December they had started hunting again. It wasn't something they discussed because that wasn't the Winchester way. After six months there was no point in continuing the active search. It had become clear that if Sam did not want to be found, then they wouldn't find him. John, Dean, and everyone else they knew would keep a close eye on the news, police reports and so on, but after six months it was time to stop interrogating "witnesses"—people that most likely would never remember seeing a skinny sixteen years old with shaggy brown hair and the propensity for carrying concealed weapons—let alone one named Sam Winchester. It was time to stop spending weekends holed up at Pastor Jim's or driving five thousand miles in five days to follow up on a "lead."

John and Dean stopped hunting together as often as they used to, although they communicated regularly. John would often pass a hunt on to Dean, and occasionally Dean would do the same for his father, but the idea of living together like they used to…? It was as though Sam had been the glue keeping them together, and without him around Dean had grown up and moved out of the house—or motel room.

But here Dean was in Salmon, Idaho, waiting for his father to show up so they could head out into the backcountry and tackle a wendigo that was terrorizing the populace. They hadn't spoken since Sam's seventeenth birthday, and even then they had both been in a more uncommunicative mood than usual.

Dean downed the last of his whiskey, slapped a few bills down on the bar, and got unsteadily to his feet.

"Hey, man, can I call you a taxi?" the barman asked.

"No, I'm just across the street."

Dean shoved out the bar door, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face.

"Fuck," he said to himself as he pulled his jacket tighter around himself and subsequently nearly executed a face plant, only saved by the helpful mass of a telephone poll. _I guess I'm more drunk than I thought,_ Dean mused, then chuckled humorlessly at the thought.

It was a hazy walk back to the motel room, and after dropping the key twice before managing to insert it in the slot and open the door, it was all Dean could do to close it behind him and fall face first onto the bed.

_Shoes_

The thought drifted through Dean's mind, but he had neither the coordination nor the energy to sit up and remove them.

_Sam_

Dean fell asleep with the name floating across the grey expanse of his mind.

SPNSPNPSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPSN

Sunlight came through a slit in the curtains and pierced through Dean's alcohol-induced slumber. He woke with a start and a snort, shielding his eyes against the glare. Groaning, he rolled over to gaze blearily at the clock on the bedside table: 11:45am.

"Shit."

It took some time for him to drag himself to the shower. The hot water helped, and feeling somewhat more alert and only mildly nauseous, he dressed, cleared away the debris from the previous night's escapades, and checked the massages on his phone.

_"Dean, I got stuck in Walla Walla overnight, so I should be in Salmon by early afternoon. See you then."_

Dean closed the phone and shook his head slightly. John Winchester, man of few words and the inability to sound at all credible when saying "Walla Walla."

_Coffee._ Coffee and eggs and bacon—that was what he needed. Wallet, keys, phone, knife in the inside pocket of his jacket. _Okay, don't throw up. _Ready to go.

It proved impossible to procure a breakfast at the local finer, so Dean settled for a hamburger. In all honesty he wasn't that hungry, but the food helped to settle his stomach.

Walking back to his room through the motel parking lot, Dean was not at all surprised to see his father's truck parked beside the Impala, and its tall owner leaning against the bumper, his own cup of coffee in hand.

"Dean." John didn't exactly smile, but it was as though a weight had been lifted from his features and he set the polystyrene cup on the car bumper so he could give Dean a hug. It felt better than Dean was willing to admit, and for a moment he let himself relax, almost anyway.

"How'd it go?" Dean asked, stepping back and looking his father over. Exhaustion had caused dark smudges to form under John's green eyes, and his plaid shirt was rumpled.

"Not too bad, stopped in southern Washington to help Rufus with a job;" apparently John had become aware of how ridiculous he sounded when saying 'Walla Walla.' "You get any sleep, Dean?"

Dean shrugged and walked over to the motel room door, number 108, unlocking it and flicking the light on as he entered. He had rented a room with two beds so he and John could share. With limited funds, an excess of guns, and the distinct possibility of returning injured, it was best to keep the bloodstains and rock salt to a minimum.

John lugged a duffel bag into the room, and he and Dean went over the details of the hunt.

"It's come closer into town than they usually do," John noted, spreading out a map of Salmon and the surrounding mountains, red inkblots indicating where the killings had occurred. Dean felt the flare of anger in his chest when he saw three dots.

There was an up-side, though; apart from being able to waste the fuggly bastard. "No camping! It looks like a one-night job to me." He scanned the topographic lines. "Look, this cliff here, I'd bet you anything there's a comfy pile of boulders at the bottom, perfect for gnawing on innocent hikers."

John nodded. "We should be able to make it out to there before dark."

"Let's just hope some wilderness whack jobs don't get themselves eaten in the meantime."

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed it. I look forward to your feedback (please?) and will post the next chapter as soon as possible. **


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